


Don't Let Me Go

by Narcissos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Salem Witches' Institute, Wow that one's a mouthful, ilvermorny school of witchcraft and wizardry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narcissos/pseuds/Narcissos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His Cedric was affectionate and loving and loyal up until the very end and this stranger only wears his face. He bleeds hostility and darkness—he isn't even human; this is not his Cedric.<br/> <br/> <i>But, oh, how Harry wishes he was.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> _There is an 8tracks playlist for this story. You can listen to it[here.](http://8tracks.com/narcissxs/don-t-let-me-go)_

_“Harry…”_

 

You’re not here.

 

_“Harry.”_

I watched you **die**.

 

_“Harry, look at me.”_

It **hurts**.

 

_“Please, Harry.”_

 

**NO** —please, no more.

 

"Harry!"

 

_I can't take the pain._

.

.

.

**"Harry, wake up!"**

  
His eyes snap open, vision focusing in on the puffy-haired girl standing above him with a worried expression. "'Mione..." He rasps, struggling to sit up.

Her arm is already outstretched, poised to help him, but then she falters and moves back, putting enough space between them that he is left with a bit more gratitude towards his best friend.

"What... happened?" A part of him already knows, so maybe his asking is just to make himself feel less insane.

"You were shouting again." She says, concern etched into her face as she fumbles with her bracelet–the one with the charms in the shape of small teeth. 

He watches her for a moment, debating whether or not it was even necessary to ask _what_ he'd been crying in his sleep–but he already knows. That's why Hermione's fidgeting, as she only does when she is absolutely uncomfortable.

He has no idea where Ron had gone and for a minute, he thinks perhaps this is for the best. Hermione did her best work for him when she is on her own. 

Harry looks away and his gaze lands on the dusty mirror on the vanity. It looks as if it hadn't been cleaned in ages, and perhaps that's precisely the case.

After all, this isn't even his house. He doesn't want it to be his. 

The person staring back at him through the reflection is haggard with ashen skin and beads of sweat on their forehead making them appear clammy and pallid. If there's one thing he knows, it's that this person isn't him. It's not supposed to be him. It'll _never_ be him-

"Harry?"

He turns back to Hermione and waits for her to continue saying whatever it is she wants to. But instead, she's got tears in her eyes and is sinking down to his bedside. It surprises him enough to say that his leg jerked beneath the sheets out of fright alone.

Cheeks pinkening, he inhales and waits for her to speak those few anxiety-inducing words.

"I'm worried about you..."

Merlin, there it is. He stares at his fingers, and he sees _blood_. Memories flood into him again-this time, it's Remus and that final hapless smile he insisted on giving Harry as though everything was okay. And... nothing was. Nothing was ever okay again.

Hermione lays her own smaller hands on his, then the red stains are gone. As if they were never there. "You did it, Harry, you avenged Cedric, so why-"

"If you're going to ask me why I'm still screaming his name, I don't know." He hisses firmly, but cringes when his voice cracks at the end. "I don't know why..." There was just so much left unexplained that Harry could not fathom. He hadn't even asked for any of this.

It didn't even matter that the war was won because he was still being haunted by his own demons.

"I just want it to stop." Harry leaves his statement to hang in the air on the off chance Hermione has a solution. She often did more than she didn't. He knows it's awful of him to pin all his hopes on her, but... 

"St. Mungo's mi-"

"Never." The fact that Hermione was suggesting that place could only mean she was drawing blanks.

He remembered what had happened a few weeks ago when he'd gone along with Neville to see his parents once again, and tell them that they were finally at _peace_. But that wasn't really the case, was it? Their brains were still thoroughly savaged and the nurses had flat-out told Neville that there was no more hope left.

So really... what about Harry? St. Mungo's couldn't help anyone at this point.

"Then I'm not sure what else to say..." Hermione murmurs as she stands and brushes dust from her knees, "It's only been.. three weeks since the war ended. Maybe you just need to give it time?" It's a decent idea, but Harry isn't having it. He wants to be rid of these memories _now_. 

"It's May 25, if I don't handle this right away, then I may never." He thinks he's being pretty reasonable, especially for someone who is incapable of being patient. "Maybe it's this place." 

"The room or... London?"

Something in her voice suggests that she is hoping for the former. It isn't until her words sink in that he realizes it's not the house. It's England as a whole.

The entire wizarding world of the UK serves as a constant reminder of the war. The cleanup of battered bodies and remnants of nature isn't even done yet.

He stays quiet, his eyes going to the silver and emerald that decorates the room. _How did he even end up sleeping in Regulus Arcturus Black's room?_ There's something morbid he feels when he sees the photographs still on the wall that move about, and the boy in the centre, Regulus in all his Slytherin glory, and it just... hits him that maybe this isn't the place for him. 

He chuckles, and it's hallow and makes him cringe again. "I have to go."

"Where?" 

"Somewhere." _Anywhere else but here._ Soon, Hermione would be off to raise a family along with Ron, and he had nobody to consider living the rest of his life with. Ginny, as wonderful as she was, had plans for herself- _big_ ones-and he's a cripple, unable to move forward, stunted in the past.

He looks up in time to catch Hermione swiping tears from her eyes and pretends he hadn't. It's easier for them both this way. "Okay," She says, managing to appear composed. "I understand." 

He allows himself to smile but doesn't linger on how authentic it appears on his face. He moves to get up, but Hermione stops him with a gentle hand on his knee. It still feels like she is hesitant on touching him.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this but..." She takes a deep breath, "There's this place in the states, I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_ -"

"What a surprise."

"Hey." She says blusteringly, but it's an empty threat to them both. "Anyways, there's an infamous town called Salem where the witch trials took place." 

His lips curve around an 'oh', but he shakes it off in order to listen to her explanation. He didn't know the name of the town, but he did pay attention to bits and pieces of information he'd heard around the school.

Annually, Hogwarts dedicated a minute of silence to remember the victims of the trials, but now it seemed they'd have their own long list to pay homage to. 

"And... the witches who are left, the ones who survived, are known for being exceptionally wise. Maybe they can help you with your nightmares." Hermione brightens considerably. "I've always wanted to meet them, but I'll just have to rely on you to tell me _everything_ in your letters."

Harry smiles inconspicuously. "Yeah, alright."

Honestly, he means to disappear and think things through on his own though maybe he needs a single link back to his world. That was assuming this was still his home.

Hermione would stay here and when he came back, she'd probably be... minister or something, which isn't too bad. She would be a million times better than Fudge or Scrimgeour ever were, probably revolutionize everything in her first week. "Hermione?"

She glances up, having been caught up in a world of overthinking. "Hm?"

"Thanks." 

* * *

 

 That same afternoon, Harry Potter is on his way to Salem, Massachusetts on a muggle airplane.

He falls asleep, and his dreams are filled with memories of his first and last love, the beautiful older Hufflepuff whose smile was enough to make the entire world light up.

 

_Cedric Diggory continues to haunt him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I find the first chapter a bit short, but the length is supposed to grow as the story progresses. Thanks for reading._


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooms, donuts, and lazy brown owls.

_"I think Oliver's gone mad."_

_All things considered, the fact that they're actually practicing out in the pouring rain means this match was everything to their top-notch (Harry thinks sarcastically) Quidditch captain._ _But, it was his last year and chance to win the house cup, so Harry can't really fault him for that. Plus, after suddenly being told yesterday that they were playing Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin, there was a lot of crucial work to be done._

_Instead, Harry sucks it up and marches through the pitch, trying not to cringe at the gross sloshing sounds his boots make._

_"We have a Potions test tomorrow, you know." says Angelina irritably, "Quite sure Snape_ will _actually kill us this time if we screw up anymore."_

_"What's more important to you, Johnson? Quidditch or Potions—?" Oliver begins smugly, only to be interrupted by Katie Bell who huffs as she nearly slips in the mud._

_"_ Passing _potions, Wood._ Passing _. There's a reason Alicia isn't here."_

_"Don't remind me..." His expression twists into a scowl as he mounts his broom, ascending to the sky and squinting at the clouds. "I wasn't satisfied with what happened last time! If we want to beat those Hufflepuffs, we'll nee—"_

_"You mean those Hufflepuffs who are currently right over there practicing?"_

_Oliver's face turns an impressive shade of red (almost as red as his uniform) when Fred's words register in his ears. Defying the situation that is the ground, he jumps from his broom and stalks over to the canary yellow-wearing group of smiling Hufflepuffs. They certainly didn't seem to be taking playing Gryffindor out of the blue so seriously._

_Harry can't recognize a few of their players, they must be new, which makes him a bit nervous. What if they were a huge threat to his seeking? Which one of them was the seeker anyways? He could have sworn Oliver told him about this yesterday..._

_"Diggory! What're you doing out here?! We booked the pitch!"_

_A tall boy in the center of the pitch turns, likely because he is this 'Diggory' fellow. His eyebrows only knot in confusion. Vaguely, Harry hears Angelina let out a 'Merlin's beard, he really is handsome'. Harry has never seen him before in his life, but Angelina certainly isn't exaggerating. The guy **is** definitely good-looking._

_"Who's he?" He asks Angelina softly._

_" **That's** Cedric Diggory, don't you remember?" At the negative response from Harry, she continues unperturbed, "He's the new captain of the Hufflepuffs. He didn't play last year—or the year before. But I heard that this year, he blew everyone away by trying out for seeker even though he's so big." _

_Harry takes a quick second to give Cedric a once-over. He really is a little too burly for traditional seeker stature. In weather like this, perhaps that would be more of an advantage than not..._

_"But he was so good that nobody stood a chance. He's so cool." Angelina murmurs. "And he changed the team up so much from last year, really, it's supposedly like we're playing a brand new team altogether."_

_"Where'd you hear that from?" asks Fred irritably._

_"Lee." She answers flatly, to which Fred begins grumbling. George, meanwhile, doesn't seem so bothered by Cedric._

_Cool... Harry looks back towards the older boy and is inclined to agree. He seems suave with his movements, like the type of guy to have girls_ and guys _all over him._

_"Sorry?" Cedric asks, "Madam Hooch booked it for us personally because you took it yesterday."_

_"You can't just take it whenever you want, Wood. Last year or not."  another Hufflepuff says flatly._

_"I thought you actually booked it?" Harry asks Oliver, who may or may not have went a little red. The howling wind prevented Harry from seeing it._

_"So did I..." He sighs, "Everything's so mixed up."_

_Harry could understand that. This practice had been a little out of the blue for the team, as Oliver had called them out on it when classes were over. Somehow, he'd memorized each of their individual schedules just so he could catch them at a moment's notice. That takes dedication, but it's also a bit disconcerting._

_He feels a little bad though, because the other teams probably had to wake up extra early on weekdays in order to get in their own practice. Oliver was really being a slave driver now._

_"We can leave though." Cedric replies, sliding his hand down from the top of his broom and leaning on it with a languid smile. "Really, s'no problem."_

_Angelina huffs, making her presence known as she steps up besides Harry, "That's not fair to_ them _, Wood."_

_"C'mon, Captain." George says, nudging the unmoving Oliver with his shoulder, "Diggory's cool, I mean, he's no Gryffindor, but..."_

_"Thanks, man." The Hufflepuff captain responds, sounding particularly amused by the whole situation. "But we were just about done here."_

_A loud clap of lightning from the sky interrupts both teams as they try to mend their issue. Harry looks up at the sky, really not wanting to fly in_ that _. The weather really is awful this year, and it's not even spring yet._

_"Right, I think that's the sky's way of telling us to go home." Katie Bell complains, "We can just get up earlier than usual tomorrow, Wood. How's that?"_

_Cedric lets out a laugh, and honestly, it's one of the nicest sounds Harry has ever heard. He feels his ears get hot all of a sudden. "Alright, get changed, everyone."_

_The rest of his team obediently heads off. After a moment, so does the Gryffindor team, Fred and George prodding at Oliver the whole way through._

_As the Hufflepuff captain moves past Harry, their eyes meet. He's got grey eyes that are indefinitely the same colour as Malfoy's, but they could not be more different. He just oozes this sort of warmth that makes Harry's knees weak. The sound of thunder rumbles overhead, as rain begins to pour down on the pitch._

_"Potter, I don't believe we were ever properly introduced." He remarks, "But, I suppose it'd be more hard to not know of you."_ _Harry's not sure what to say to that as he bites down hard on his lip. He blanches when Cedric extends a hand to him, smooth and graceful, and wow, he wishes he could be like that._ _"Cedric Diggory,_ new _captain of the Puffs."_

_"Harry Potter." He manages. His heart jumps to his throat when the older Hufflepuff smiles—and it's beautiful enough to make Harry forget about the rainwater seeping into every inch of his body. "Nice to meet you, Cedric." That pretty much seals the deal for Harry that he likes the older boy's name._

_"I look forward to playing you tomorrow." Cedric says, almost mischievously, "We're both seekers, after all."_

_"Oh..."  Right. He was a seeker. Somehow, the thought of being in close range to Cedric Diggory fills Harry with a sense of worry. "Uh, yeah, me too."_

_"I reckon I should get going..."  Cedric says pointedly, though for whatever reason, he does not move. "Big day tomorrow."_

_Harry wills his eyes away from the Hufflepuff, only then realizing his grip on Cedric's hand was, for whatever reason, far tighter than it should be. "S-Sorry..."_ _He jolts, jerking his hand back, murmuring a half-assed apology. That was humiliating on his part._

 _"No harm, Harry—Er, I_ can _call you that, right?"_

_"Y-Yeah."  He feels his face explode with a bright red blush, because his name sounds really nice from Cedric's mouth._

_"You can call me Cedric, it's fine." says the older boy, uncharacteristically bashful._

_"Oh, okay... Cedric, then..." Harry intones, "I'll just... go change."_

_Cedric nods, "Right... See you, Harry."_

_Even as Harry scurries after the rest of his team, managing to not slip visibly in the mud, he can't help but feel like this wouldn't be the last time he would be rendered completely and utterly mystified by the sight of Cedric Diggory._

_Not only that but... Cedric isn't **as** cool as everyone else seems to think either. _

_He spares another glance backwards, catching Cedric's gaze effectively. The older boy straightens immediately, waving awkwardly at Harry before ascending up on his broom._

_He watches for a moment as Cedric's fist closes effortlessly around the hummingbird-like snitch as it flutters around him, and then he's absolutely sure that their match would be entertaining._

* * *

America is a weird place. More specifically, the state of Massachusetts and in particular, the city of Boston. The accents of the people working in the airport sound about as thick as Viktor Krum's, but Harry still thinks he could understand the Bulgarian's more.

Not only that, but the vast majority of the outside streets seem to be filled with people harbouring a bad case of road rage. It felt like driving to the train station with Uncle Vernon all over again...

Harry frowns as he takes a deep breath. Immediately, the scent of smog (and some thick insults) fill his every working sense. It's not something he wants to do again, so perhaps breathing through his mouth would suffice for now.

Still, for May of 1998, it's surprisingly polluted outside. He raises his hand to try and hail a taxi, but they only seem to speed past him further. If this isn't a perplexing situation, Harry's not sure what is.

"Tryin' to hail a cab or something?" 

Harry turns, finding a woman with a bagful of what appears to be donuts, in hand. She munches languidly on her glazed treat, hardly concentrating as she sticks a hand out and barks out a 'hey!'. Instantly, a taxi speeds their way and stops just in front of them as though it were second nature—in six seconds flat. These locals were crafty.

"Where you headed, kid?" She asks, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. "You don't look familiar, kinda pansy-like."

Pretending as though that doesn't offend him, he tries to bypass that comment. Was her remark because he'd done up his collar all the way, for once? "I'm visiting."

Saying he's a tourist doesn't seem so appealing. Literally anyone could take advantage of him that way. This girl included.

"Oh, damn, your accent's real cute." The woman says, "Where to? Dorchester? Chelsea?—You look like a Chelsea sort of dude." 

"Salem, actually." Harry's not sure what Chelsea has that would interest him, as this woman seems to believe. He doesn't quite want to either, taking into consideration what she'd said before.

She freezes, "Well, isn't that something. Salem's my hometown. I was on a trip to, uh, Illinois." The woman gestures to her suitcase where 'Salem' is plastered on the top. Well, that seems more trusting than her just saying so. He allows his shoulders to relax a bit more. "So where're you staying there?"

Harry fumbles for an answer. On one hand, he could just say he didn't know, on the other, he could mention a hotel. He shakes his head, "Not sure." It was better to just be truthful.

"My ma runs a bed and breakfast down there." She says, running a hand through her fluffy hair. For a moment, she reminds Harry of Hermione, if she were less abrasive. "Sure she's got space for one more!" 

"Oh... great." Harry clears his throat pointedly, "I should really get going so... thanks, for the cab." He climbs into the taxi where the driver merely asks for his location. After murmuring a stout 'Salem', he leans back in the seat, finally relaxing.

The whole way there on the airplane had been complete hell. There was so much turbulence, he actually prefers apparation to planes. Never again. 

Before the taxi has a chance to pull away from the curb, the door on the other end opens, and the woman from before slides in effortlessly. "Hey, kid! I was going to dick around out here for a bit longer, but then I thought, better to just get home! I heard a storm was coming. Anyways, we'll split the fare. Yeah?" 

"Great." He sighs, shifting over as she prods him aside. Harry _had_ been hoping for a quiet ride there, but now this woman is here and... "I don't even know your name, you know."

"My bad. Maeva C. Brogan from Salem. You?" 

"Harry Potter." He watches as a look of confusion passes over this girl, Maeva before it disappears. That was awfully weird. "From England." He adds.

"Feels like I know your name from somewhere... eh. Must be a Brit thing." She extends a hand towards him, and he raises a brow at the remnants of glaze still on her fingers. Still, he takes her hand because it would be rude otherwise. "Good to meet you, kid!" 

"Right, you too." Harry turns his eyes to the window as the building scenery zips by, acutely aware that from here on out, he would be grasping random straws to get the help he needs.

What were the chances that anybody knew of the witches? He couldn't just ask Maeva, because no muggle would actually have viable information for him to use.

This wouldn't be the first time that Harry was gasping in the wind anyways. What was once more?

* * *

 

Somehow, it should not have been a surprise to Harry that Maeva didn't have enough money on her to pay her half of the fare. Basically, he'd had to pay almost the full price.

How she was able to afford a plane ticket dumbfounded him. She's eccentric, always hungry, and kind of forgetful too—like Luna. Remembering his oddity of a friend makes his heart hurt a little.

He shakes it off, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The town is a bit cold, just as he thought it would be. It's not the literal temperature that chills his bones. It's the fact that there are hardly any people around, and the trees that cover up most of the buildings seem none too welcoming either. The houses seem to be falling apart all around him. He could only stand to imagine the state of Maeva's bed and breakfast too. Had he dug himself a shallow grave? Would he have to sleep in a cupboard— _Well, that's nothing new_ he thinks bitterly.

Harry stops briefly as he peers over the top of one of the largest, imposing buildings. This one is a church, it's obvious due to the cross on the very top. This too, is falling apart. He sighs. Where in Merlin's name would he find the witches? If they happen to live in shabby housing like this, then he decides he's actually in for a world of misery.

"Our place is called the Brogan House, lovely little place, nice decor, television is free for the guests. Sometimes I help out, but I get lazy, y'know? Anyways, it's just me and Ma." She begins chattering away as she _skips_ along the sidewalk. "She's nice, except when you leave your socks on the ground, then she gets mad and it isn't pretty."

"Oh."

"Mhm. When I went off to school when I turned eleven, she was all alone, but I personally think she liked that." Maeva continues pleasantly. 

He pauses. "Did you only start going to school at eleven?" That was a strange way for her to word it.

"Nah, not exactly. Started going to a better, all-girls boarding school when I was in year 7. You know how it is, testosterone, _bah_."

  
Harry takes a deep breath, regarding Maeva cynically. "You have no idea." Something in her story just felt... weird, to Harry. It could just be his PTSD acting up, and that was no surprise. 

"...So what's your story, Harry?"

He almost stumbles on a tree root, both from his initial surprise at the question, and the fact that Maeva has her bug eyes on him again after he had just been doubting her. "Story?"

"Everyone's got a story."

"Not me."

"Don't lie, so what's yours?" She reinstates her previous question, undeterred by his flat responses, "I'll start. I'm Maeva C. Brogan, 24 years, born on the second floor of the Brogan House, _funny story actually_ , I was—"

"I _don't_ have a story." He says, not in any particular mood to explain why he came here. He doesn't want to hear her explanation of her birth either. "Just... travelling."

"Was it because of a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Dog-nah, I guess that's stupid." 

Harry exhales a dry laugh, "Something like that." Telling a random stranger (though perhaps she wasn't a stranger anymore) that he is constantly being haunted by memories of his boyfriend is something to save for... a later time.

For now, he'd just let her assume whatever she wants.

Maeva gives him an inquisitive stare for a moment before shrugging and jogging up the walkway. "Home's this way, Harry! I'm gonna go warn Ma that I brought a guest! Take your time so she doesn't lose her mind." 

"Thanks." He calls back, but by then she is gone. He lets out a repressed sigh, definitely relieved that he is finally alone after so long. There is a homely sign posted above the awning that reads 'Brogan House', just as Maeva had said there would be. 

He's not sure if he wants to go in just yet. Perhaps he just has to take a moment for himself...

Harry leans against a tree, running a hand through his hair. He's not coated with enough sweat to say that he feels gross, but he does feel... uneasy.

It feels like he'd just thrown away his entire home for a fleeting chance of normalcy.

"Merlin, I sound like the Dursleys..." He snorts, inhaling the crisp air of Salem. This was it, though. A new chapter of his life. Of course Harry James Potter would find himself out in North America all on his own.

Hedwig would have been so glad to come with him, except... she was gone, just like so many others. He scowls, realizing he's been depressing himself much more than he needs to.

Harry sighs bitterly and digs into his pocket, pulling out the bill from his impromptu meal at a diner before they entered Salem.

Maeva, true to her somewhat bulky stature, could put away a vast amount of food when given the chance. So could Harry, but these days, he'd lost his appetite more than ever. That wasn't the surprising part of this whole thing. 

A strong wind blows past him, picking up the flimsy paper and whisking it far away. Harry stares vacantly as it flies off, and his breath hitches in his throat at the sight of— _"An owl..."_

In its talons lies a scroll of paper, and the tan owl seems to take no precautions in letting itself be seen by Harry. It makes full eye contact with him before fluttering on by, without a care in the world. If that sort of mailing system still exists out here... then it meant the witches did too.

_And that means that letter could be for one of them._

"...Sod it." Harry decides, and takes off after the owl.


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vengeful no-maj and secrets revealed.

_Shooing Hermione and Ron out of his room proved to be more of a challenge than anything else. Harry had to almost put on some fake waterworks before they gave in and scuttled out of the room, though not before asking for the fiftieth time if he was absolutely, positively okay by himself._

_Being the chosen one came with far too many side effects. Fighting off a basilisk, that was to be expected. Having a deranged psychopathic murderer out for his blood, he could understand that too. But falling out of the sky from a fifty feet height due to the dementors who were supposed to save him FROM said murderer? That was just unnecessary._

_"I'm taking a step out." Madam Pomfrey tells him, visibly pleased when she can't see Hermione or Ron anywhere. "When I return, I'd better find you asleep. Don't think of getting out of bed yet either."_

_He lets out a noncommittal mutter of acceptance, waiting patiently for the door to shut before he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. "Sod it..." He grumbles when a wave of vertigo hits him straight away, but he isn't deterred._

_Harry crouches and pulls out the bag containing what is left of his trusty Nimbus. Merlin, it just feels awful to have to part with it. This very broom has been with him through an array of twisted games. Now, it's broken AND he hadn't won their last game. Just awful._

_Harry's throat closes up the moment he feels the onslaught of heartbreak, but he sighs and instead decides to put it away for now. As he inches the bag back beneath the infirmary bed, the door opens._

_He whirls around, "I wasn't out of bed–!"_

_What follows can only be described as a moment of silence in which Harry feels both relief and dread. The former, because it isn't Madam Pomfrey._

_The latter... because it's Cedric._

_The Hufflepuff shuffles into the room and shuts the door behind him, smiling nervously, "Harry, how're you feeling?"_

_"I'm alright.." As alright as someone whose heart has just been ripped out of their chest could be. Harry already feels like he knows what Cedric is going to say, and so he doesn't attempt to speak, or ask him how he is. Instead, he just waits and–_

_"Look, I'm really sorry–"_

_He sighs, "'s not your fault." He really doesn't blame Cedric for what happened out on the pitch. For a matter of fact, he isn't even sure how he could blame him. "You did what you were supposed to do."_

_"But before I'm seeker or... captain or anything, I'm–well," He fumbles inarticulately for a moment before giving up, "I'm a Hufflepuff and we're supposed to look out for others, you know? I just feel like I didn't do enough."_

_"What could you have done?" Harry asks in amusement, "Hurl the dementors off the pitch?"_

_"I could've caught you." Cedric says sternly, "Or your broom–oh, for Merlin's sake, I was right there!"_

_"You aren't responsible for me, Cedric." He replies pointedly, "I appreciate it, though. Really."_

_The Hufflepuff looks down at the battered remains of Harry's broom and grows pale. "...How are you going to play now?"_

_He shrugs and kicks the bag away from both their eyes. "At this point, I'm not even sure if we're still in the running." It all depends on how badly (or good) Hufflepuff did when they played Ravenclaw in a few weeks. If they threw the match, there was a possibility Harry's team could still make the most of the situation–but he wasn't counting on it._

_When Cedric visibly begins to grow more white in the face, Harry cringes. "Er, I can borrow one from the shed. No harm." The old-school Cleansweeps might even be fun to fly... Maybe. Yeah probably not._

_"Borrow mine." He says suddenly. When the response he gets is a blank look from Harry, he already jumps to the explanation. "No–I, I mean..." Cedric exhales, his ears a curious pink colour as he runs a hand through his hair and smiles, "Mines works fine, I think. And some of those brooms might fall apart when you touch them. Better safe than sorry."_

_Harry's not sure what he can say when he sees the determined and slightly embarrassed look in Cedric's eyes. All he can manage to do is nod and let out a hurried, "Y-Yeah, okay..." Harry doesn't particularly enjoy relying on people, but Cedric didn't mean any harm to him, no matter what Fred and most of his team seems to think. Besides, Cedric was able to match him out in the pouring rain, so his broom must've been pretty good anyways._

_"You must think I'm really mucking this up, huh?" The Hufflepuff says weakly._

_Harry sits back down in his bed, "What?" He feels kind of stupid since he'd actually been standing there while Cedric tried to have a proper conversation with him._

_"I can't even talk to the guy I like without acting completely mental..."_

_The silence that ensues knocks them both back a couple feet, metaphorically and literally, in the case of Harry and Cedric respectfully. The older boy stumbles backwards, hitting the wall behind him while his cheeks grow completely and irrevocably red. "Th-That wasn't intentional! Oh... blimey!"_

_Harry, unable to say anything, can only watch as Cedric falls all over himself trying to justify his word choice. He just blinks and... waits._

_"I–" Cedric bites his lip hard enough to actually draw blood. He rubs at it furiously, "I've got to go. Homework and... things–" He's disappeared by the time Harry works up the nerve to grunt out a 'huh?'._

_Left alone to his own devices, the boy who lived furrows his eyebrows and collapses back into bed. "What was that...?" Unsurprisingly, nothing in the infirmary can give him even the faintest idea of what he'd just witnessed. No thirteen year old was supposed to deal with this sort of thing._

_Madam Pomfrey bursts in, having heard the sounds of someone running away (how smooth was Cedric?) and rains down on Harry like the devil incarnate, very infuriated that he'd not been sleeping at all._

_He assures her that he'd try–even pulls the sheets up to his chin and shuts his eyes to make it seem more believable. But he has no intention of actually sleeping. His heart is racing in his chest and he fears it might burst. Harry slaps a hand over his mouth to keep his groan from echoing throughout the infirmary._

_How's he supposed to take a nap, knowing there is a Hufflepuff making a quick escape back to his burrow who might potentially have feelings for him?_

* * *

 

Following an owl through the barren trees proves to be more of a challenge than Harry would've expected. He can hear it as it flies by, but the chase proves futile as the owl takes more back roads than one would consider normal. It's almost as if the bird is lost too.

"Why am I even doing this...?" Harry mumbles to himself. He clears his throat and whistles lowly, hoping to catch the bird's attention. The owl is undeterred, flying higher and quicker to wherever its destination is. 

He skids to a sudden stop when the loud crack of a gunshot echoes through the forest. In that instant, the owl is gone, and Harry's heart sinks when he realizes that it had been shot. He wills his feet to move slowly, and finds the barely moving bird on the floor, the letter a few feet away.

His first instinct is to get the letter, rather than the owl, but he thinks otherwise because the poor thing is close to death. He moves closer to the owl and gently cradles it to his chest, whispering a soft "It's going to be alright." even though he knows otherwise.

A shadow comes over him and he looks up, finding a tall, imposing man standing above him, a shotgun in his hand pointed at Harry.

"Bloody hell!" He scrambles up and puts distance between him and the older man, his heartbeat quickening. The owl lets out a weak coo, and his initial fear dissipates. "Why'd you shoot?!"

"Who the hell are you? This town don't need no visitors." The man spits, leveling the gun to Harry's forehead.

He wants to play the 'I asked you first' card, but for the moment, the shotgun is the one in charge. He's at a substantial loss, considering his wand is stashed away in his luggage, not allowed in his carry-on at the airport. There's no way he can get it and get out of this situation quick enough. "Harry Potter, I'm only passing through."

"Then you best be on your way." the man snaps.

"You didn't answer MY question. Why'd you shoot this owl?" Harry demands, finding the courage to stand his ground. 

"These damn creatures buzz around my property, as if-"

"Bullshit! That's no excuse to shoot it! It's going to die and—" If Hedwig (had she been alive) were in this owl's situation, Harry isn't sure what he would do to her murderer. What he does know is that the gun would be the least of their concerns.

"Harry!" 

Both Harry and the man turn to the edge of the clearing where Maeva, unusually serious, comes running after them. She stops short of taking Harry's wrist when she notices the owl in the crutch of his arm. "Oh, no." 

"Maeva, can you believe this man?! He just-"

Her fingernails briefly dig into his arm and he winces, finally noticing how much more tense the situation has become. Maeva steps in front of Harry and heaves a breath, "Mr. Witold."

"Brogan." He hisses, finally lowering his gun. "Keep your pet projects away from my house." 

The so-called Mr. Witold turns to leave, stomping away and kicking dirt up with his heavy hunting boots. Before he can get far, Maeva clears her throat. "You know you're taking your anger out on the wrong people, don't you?" 

Harry jolts as a bullet suddenly lodges itself in the tree branch above his head. Maeva isn't fazed. In fact, it doesn't even look like she blinked. He swallows thickly, "What the hell...?" The door to the man's house opens and slams shut, and the clearing is once again shrouded in deafening silence. "Maeva-" He begins.

"So is it true?"

He furrows his brows, "What?"

"You're _the_ Harry Potter?" 

She turns back to him, stern, serious, and completely unlike the Maeva he used to know. He nods slowly, letting his gaze drop to the weakly flailing owl in his arms. He can see the life slipping away from its bright yellow eyes. Not long now. Harry strokes its head softly, wondering what sort of unimaginable pain it was in. It hurts him to think how many other innocent owls died the same way.

But, this meant Maeva knew about wizards. She knew about _him_. "You're one too, aren't you?"

"Mhm..." She chuckles dryly, "Ilvermorny graduate. Thunderbird." 

They both return to a benign silence until she shakes her head. "I can't explain everything until we get further from here."

He frowns. "But, the owl, it's-"

"Yeah, I know a fancy little trick for that." Maeva whispers, and raises her hand over the tattered wing of the bird. " _Depello!_ " A small metal object snaps out of the owl's wing, and the blood disappears as the bird is returned to perfect health. It flails, now stronger than ever, and takes to the skies, leaving them both behind and the letter forgotten. 

"How'd you learn that?" He asks, a bit in awe of her skill. Wandless magic was not something taught explicitly. 

"When you don't get to keep your wand during summer break, you get crafty." She grinned, but then looked up and grimaced. "We gotta go, _now_."

Startled by her sudden urgency, he nods but remembers the letter at the very last moment. "Accio letter!" He whispers, and to his relief, the envelope flies into his grasp. Pocketing it, Harry takes a deep breath and follows after Maeva.

* * *

The first thing Harry registers when he walks into the Brogan House is that it's no ordinary Bed and Breakfast. His eyes widen at the broom sweeping itself across a mantel, and a spoon stirring itself in a pot on the stove. He'd been so worried about not finding the witches in Salem... and they end up right beneath his nose. "Wait." He murmurs, "Is this-"

"A magical inn. Yeah, basically." Maeva replies, "I got rid of the glamour before you came in. If I wasn't sure you were a wizard, I'd have left it up." She was more responsible than Harry originally thought... "Ma, I'm home!" 

A door concealing a pantry opens, and a plump woman pokes her head out. The moment she sees Harry, her eyes widen and subsequently glaze over. "Merlin's beard, Maeva was right..."

"I don't lie!" She protests, puffing up her cheeks. "Goddamn, Ma. Thought you knew me better." After patting Harry on the shoulder and leaving him with a final warning of 'good luck', she disappears into the bathroom. 

"Come in, Harry, make yourself at home!" The woman exclaims as she closes the pantry. Her arms wrap around Harry in an impromptu hug and she is practically vibrating with excitement. "To think, the saviour of the wizarding world is in my humble home!" 

"Ma, you charge people per use of soap!" comes Maeva's voice from the bathroom. " _Including_ me! How's that humble?!" 

"Never mind her, Harry." She says dismissively, "Lemme introduce myself. I'm Jada Brogan, owner of Brogan House, and if Maeva hasn't explained it yet, yes, it's magical."

"So... is everyone here a wizard?" He inquires, taking note of his luggage neatly propped up against a far wall. 

"The long-term visitors are. Not so much the short-term ones." She says, turning the stove off, "Hungry, Harry? The soup is done."

"No, thank you." He says politely, but does sink down into a seat by the table. Food is the last thing on his mind now. There's a lot he wants answers for and Jada's motherly and hospitable nature could ensure some answers. "Can you tell me who Mr. Witold is?"

Her eyes darken considerably. "I see you've met Wilmer..."

So the heartless man _did_ have a full name. Harry just wants to know what the man's deal was. "He shot an owl I was following. Maeva saved it, but..."

"Figured she'd do that. Wilmer's a no-maj."

"Sorry, a no-maj?" 

Jada frowns, thoroughly confused before she nods triumphantly, "Ah, forgive me. A no-maj is the equivalent of a muggle. Apologies, Harry."

He'd forgotten until now that America was different from the UK in terms of slang. On his way in to Maeva's area, she'd been rendered quite amused by some of the things he said; things that were not funny at all. 

"Anyways, he and his wife Edith moved to Salem as newlyweds a long time ago. She was a downright treasure, lemme tell you that, she was a no-maj as well, but gave up her house as a safe-haven for runaway wizards." Jada began ladling soup into a bright pink bowl, "About a year ago, one of those runaway wizards robbed them, but Edith had been awake during the night. When she confronted the man, she got killed."

He grimaces. "And he wants revenge?"

"Precisely." She responds, "Unfortunately, the ministry isn't allowed to intervene because of the laws of Salem-"

"Laws?" 

"Don't they teach this at Hogwarts?" wonders Jada, though she shrugs. "Salem, due to all those witch-trials, established a series of laws within the ministry. Any no-maj who knows of wizardkind isn't to be obliviated." 

"That puts us at a disadvantage then!" Harry exclaims, "He shoots owls, what if a wizard is next?"

"I mean, we can kill him if it comes to that." calls Maeva as she emerges from the bathroom, a fluffy towel around her neck. "Hope you don't mind, Ma, I showered with the good soap."

"You owe me $14." her mother smiles 'sweetly', gesturing to the bowl on the counter. "Eat over there in silence."

"We both know I ain't about to do that." She replies dryly, "Anyways, Mr. Witold resents our kind, but it's mostly hot air at this point. The guy who killed his wife is in prison."

"Nothing he can do except expel some anger." Jada adds. "Maeva, Harry's not hungry, so go and show him one of our empty rooms."

"Wait. Why didn't you tell me you were a witch when we met?" He asks Maeva who smiles, though it appears forced.

"Listen, Harry... Mr. Witold, he's..." She sighs, as if this is difficult for her to explain, "He's not the only one who loathes wizards. Around here, because of the witch trials, a lot of people still can't stand our kind. I don't flaunt my being a witch because it makes me vulnerable." Maeva groans, "And even though he wouldn't have shot us, there are some people who _would_."

"Don't scare the boy, he just got here." Jada hisses.

Maeva stands, leaving her half-eaten soup bowl and puts on a grin. "Come on, Harry! You can have the room next to mine! It's always vacant, no idea why, though..."

He can swear, as he's being led away, that her mother muttered out a 'I can think of a few reasons.'.

* * *

If Hermione were here now, she'd be having a field day with the onslaught of information Harry had just been exposed to. Ilvermorny and these so-called laws of Salem... It was a tad overwhelming, especially since everything was new to him. There was so much more Harry wanted to know, but he'd been thrown up here abruptly before he could ask the rest of his questions. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he needed to rest and recuperate after almost dying. The old witches of Salem could wait.

Granted, now, Harry doesn't believe Witold would have actually shot him. Perhaps he would have shot above his head again (the no-maj had surprising accuracy). He sighs, turning towards the window, now dark as night had fallen. In doing so, something makes a crinkling noise in his jeans. He scowls, but digs into his pocket, producing a wrinkled, white envelope. The letter the owl had left behind in its haste to thrive elsewhere. 

As he turns it over in his hand, the crisp handwriting of a name becomes more visible. It is smudged, but still just legible enough that he can make out what it says, as well as an address. Just reading the name of the person who the letter was intended to be sent to, he can tell, it's definitely belonging of a wizard. One who might be able to get him the answers he needs.

 **_'Carlisle Cullen_ **  
**_1313 Piers Rd.'_ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My chapters were wiped twice. Damn._


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter with the Cullens and a budding threat.

Perhaps the hardest part of getting to Carlisle Cullen's house was making it to the front door.

Harry had awoken in the early morning, determined to take his time and find the owner of this letter, but it appeared as though someone had told the other travellers about his arrival–and he was willing to bet all his money that it was Maeva's mother.

He'd managed to push away all the travellers with burning questions–except for one resilient lad who just couldn't stop himself. Swamped with several inquiries about the battle of Hogwarts, Harry's eyes dart towards the stairwell leading to the rooms out of desperation.

"C'mon, Mr. Potter! Anything at all you can tell me? Please?!" The young man with dark hair and a cherub-like face asks, his eyes a wild frenzy for information. He'd been downstairs since before Harry had left his room. Something told him the man was waiting for him specifically.

Harry politely sidesteps him, plucking a glass from the cabinet and filling it with orange juice when he realizes escape is futile. "There's nothing I can say that isn't already known." Well, perhaps nobody knew what it was like to die and then return, or hold the resurrection stone and see those who had died, or... "Everything's accounted for."

The man appears dejected, sighing as he stares at the blank notepad in front of him. Unlike Rita Skeeter, at least he seems poised to use his own words in his writing. No magical quill in sight. "Guess this is what I get for not going to Ilvermorny, anyways."

He blinks. "Pardon? Doesn't every wizard go there?" He couldn't imagine someone not being properly instructed in the art of magic. To be fair, proper education was still a far cry from what he'd endured at Hogwarts, but...

"Lovely if that were true." remarks Maeva as she saunters down the stairs, swinging her wand wildly. Harry breathes a sigh of relief though it is short-lived when she grins at him. "Morning! I see Ma told Pollux about you."

Oh. So this sad guy was called Pollux... Harry found it to be a memorable name only because it rhymed with 'bollocks'. "You were saying?"

Maeva gives her wand a twirl, reciting a spell as the kettle flicks on. She leans against the counter wearily. "Ilvermorny's the biggest and most influential magic school in North America. There's a specific quota they have to meet per country. America takes in the most, seeing as how it is here, but the slots are limited per year."

Weren't there more schools, in that case? Harry decides that he'd have felt utterly crushed if he wasn't able to enroll in Hogwarts because of a quota.

"Yeah, I wasn't accepted." sulks Pollux, "Instead, I went to a shoddy old farm in Wisconsin... They didn't even have pukwudgies."

"Sucks for you." says Maeva, making a circle gesture with her wand as coffee grounds float into a mug. "Seriously though, Ilvermorny's hard to get into. You've gotta be exhibiting some wicked strong magic before they let you in."

That made sense too. Maeva could do wandless magic, and it didn't seem to drain her. Obviously that was natural talent which had been further honed by Ilvermorny.

"Because they're so exclusive, any wizard field in the world would want someone who graduated there." adds Pollux. "The rest of us get stuck with crummy jobs... Like reporting."

Did that mean Maeva had a well-paying job? As if sensing his thoughts on her, she smiles sheepishly. "I wasn't in Illinois. Um, I actually do curse-breaking in India."

He raises an eyebrow. That was a profession far more elite than what he actually expected of her. Bill Weasley did it and he was the definition of suave. Maeva, meanwhile, had donut crumbs on her collar and a spot of paint on her cheek when they'd first met.

"The best job." scowls Pollux. "What do you do, Mr. Potter?"

He pauses to think over the question, still a bit surprised someone's even asked that. He'd only just graduated Hogwarts. "I was going to be an auror."

"I can see that happening." remarks Maeva as she tips half a jar of sugar into her coffee. "Wait, you said was. You ditch that idea or something?"

"Yeah." That's the simplest answer, isn't it? He's in a small hick town called Salem with gun-shooting widows and inexperienced owls during the most crucial time after the end of the war and the rest of his life. The auror prospect is as good as dead as far as he is concerned.

Harry snaps himself out of his daydream and places his now empty glass into the sink. in his sleeve, his wand pulses. He'd remembered to get it from his suitcase this time, on the off chance he ran into anymore trouble. The time had come to get out of there. He DID have a pressing matter at hand, after all. "I'll be off."

"Where did you say you were headed again?" asks Maeva.

"I never told you." points out Harry. He would much rather not say anything either.

She smiles goofily. "I know. That was me asking. So, c'mon, where to?"

"Just... somewhere. It's nearby, I believe." Seriously, can't they both take a hint? Maeva looks about ready to burst with curiosity and Pollux is leaning closer with his quill on paper. He pauses though. How would he know that Piers Road or whatever, is even in Salem? Maybe he did need some minor assistance.

"Oh, let me help." Maeva and Pollux say at once. They glare at each other, though Maeva looks bemused by the situation.

Harry exhales slowly. "Alright."

"Is that an 'alright' to her or to me?" Pollux presses.

Choosing to ignore that, Harry reaches into his pocket, making sure (for the millionth time today) that the letter is in his pocket. It is. Thank Merlin for that. No more detours for him. "Is there a Piers Road in Salem?"

"Piers? You mean the fancy complex place up the street?" blinks Maeva.

That's the only answer he needs. It's close enough that he requires no more additional help to get there. Harry waves, "See you."

Before they can ask what he means, he apparates out of sight.

* * *

 

For the most part, Maeva hadn't been kidding. It's fancy. Much more than the brown brick bungalows that lined the previous street. It does not have a overly-rustic feel to it, unlike the inn and its surroundings. The air tastes better, cleaner, but it's just as quiet as the rest of the city. There is a single car parked in front of a grey-bricked building with a sign that reads: Eva's. The other buildings do not seem to indicate if they are houses or not. Furthermore, there are no numbers that he can see.

Harry scratches his head, at a visible loss. Maybe he shouldn't have dismissed Maeva's help earlier. She evidently knew her way around the place. Perhaps she even knew Carlisle Cullen...

He could, at the very least, start with the shop. He trudges to the door, taking note of the American flag doormat. It's a weird concept for him. He can't imagine such a patriotic country wanting someone to wipe their feet on the flag.

A chime above his head sounds off as he shoulders the door open. His nose is instantly assaulted with a sweet, atmospheric aroma. The place has a very distinct smell. It acutely reminds him of butterbeer from Hogsmeade, but there is no way a muggle dwelling can actually carry that.

There are three people–a man and two women–gathered by the counter, chatting and laughing over a plate of tarts. Upon seeing him, the laughter stops. He suddenly feels much more out of place than he should. They all just stare at him in confusion and he coughs softly.

The stout woman behind the counter beams at him. She looks like she might be older than Maeva's mother, or at least around the same age. "Well, you're certainly a fresh face! Come, have a seat, hun." She brushes off an empty chair with a hand towel. "It sure is interesting how many visitors from Boston we're getting recently. Must be because of summer."

"Uh-huh, nothin' says summer loving quite like witch houses." says the man beside her with a derisive snort. The only word Harry can describe him as is 'balding'.

"First it was you and your family, Esme, and now this young man." continues the old woman.

"We're not visiting." says the lady—apparently Esme—beside her pleasantly. She sips at a cup of coffee liberally, running one hand through her wavy brown hair. "We fully intend to stay until the kids are ready to graduate _or_ until my husband's clinic stops receiving patients."

"What a sad day that'll be. Alice is such a treat. Tell her to visit soon, will you?" huffs the woman. "Come now, hun. I'll get you something to drink. Coffee okay?"

"I'm not from Boston." says Harry chastely. "Actually, I was wondering if y—"

"Well that's an accent right there." comments the man beside Esme. He raises a brow. "Can't feed the boy coffee, Eva. He's a Brit! They need tea."

Eva... She's the one who owns this establishment. Harry takes notice of the stack of menus near her elbow and the name tag pinned to her shirt. It's a restaurant—and quite a vacant one at that. "He could very well be from Australia, you know." She says. "Or new Zealand."

"Are ya'?" inquires the unnamed man.

Harry shakes his head, a bit irritated at the lack of mutual communication going on. "I'm British. Look, I wanted t—"

"Ha! I should've put money on it!" exclaims the man.

"Oh hush up, Harold. The day you finally have money is the day I become a damn witch!" snaps Eva.

"Think this town will burn you at the stake if I ask 'em nicely too?" grins Harold. His bald spot gleams in the sunlight. It's prominent enough that both Harry and the quieter woman, Esme, take notice of the light that reflects. They both smile inconspicuously, though she does a better job at hiding it.

Eva scoffs. "Always the funny guy, huh? Mama was right about you, all lip but nothin' to—"

 _ **"I'm looking for Carlisle Cullen!"** _ shouts Harry, finally fed up with the lack of listening from the occupants in the room.

The ensuing silence is worst than before. Now he really feels out of place. His cheeks go bright red as he waits anxiously for some sort of reaction. At this point he is willing to take anything; a laugh, a reply (that would be most favourable)—anything.

Eventually, Esme puts down her cup. It barely makes a sound as it comes into contact with her saucer. The movement does however attract the attention of everyone present. "What do you need from my husband?"

 _Husband?_ Harry's mouth feels dry. All this time, he's been sitting with someone who is directly tied to Carlisle Cullen and he didn't have a clue. Looking at her now, Harry realizes she does seem a fair bit different than Eva and Harold.

Her skin is unusually pale, paper-white, like porcelain, and her eyes appear bright gold—both traits not harboured by normal muggles. More than that, she holds herself with posture usually associated with aristocratic witches or perhaps someone born in the 1800s. He's learned to analyze manners at this point, a trait he briefly picked up from Andromeda Tonks who couldn't care less about all of that anyways. 

But this Esme looks like a closeted witch to him. If anything, perhaps even a pureblood. They share a kinship. It was no wonder his pulse has been erratic since entering the restaurant.

Harry swallows thickly, remembering that everyone is still waiting for an explanation and panics some more. "I–" He digs into his pocket, fumbling for the letter. It's crumpled enough that the words appear unintelligible and mangled. He smooths it with the side of his hand and holds it out to Esme. "This."

She takes the envelope gingerly. Her eyes scan the writing and then go wide with terror. "Oh." says Esme, looking back at him, "That's not good."

* * *

"How did you come upon this envelope in the first place?" asks Esme as she leaves with Harry, headed to her home to meet with Carlisle. She stares at the letter between her fingers with enough heat to potentially melt it. "This isn't something you can just... pick up."

"I know what you are." says Harry dryly.

She stops abruptly and scrutinizes him tactfully. " _Really_? You don't look like—"

"I am." He says irritably, but opts for a different approach because he doesn't mean to sound so rude. "I don't like to hide it." The wizard part of him is something that shaped his entire existence. Harry's life hadn't ever begun until the moment he received the letter to Hogwarts.

"If you don't mind me asking, what year did you..." Esme trails off, tucking a lock of wavy hair behind her ear as she resumes walking. The question is harmless enough; he's not sure why she seems so uncertain to ask it.

Harry smiles fondly as the memories rush back to him. Maybe it's more common for wizards to exhibit magic at a far earlier age. "1991." In his case, he hadn't known he could do anything remotely magical until he was explicitly told so.

"Oh." Her eyes soften. "It hasn't been too long. You must still be getting used to it."

"It's not so bad." He shrugs. Sure, some aspects of being a wizard were scary at first but he'd more than assimilated after his first few days in Hogwarts. "Anyways, I found the letter because some lousy muggle shot your owl."

She frowns thoughtfully. "Muggle...?"

"Sorry, I meant no-maj." He puts his hands into his pockets. Harry still finds muggle more easier to say, but American customs are foreign to him as a whole. "I'm Harry, by the way."

"It's nice to meet you, Harry. My name is Esme Cullen." She says warmly, though confusion is evident in her tone. "Why did you want to see Carlisle?"

He pauses. Did he want to freak her out with all of his issues straight off the bat? "You said he was a doctor?" Her nod supports his claim, so he continues. "I'd like to speak with him about a problem I have. Maybe he can help."

"I'm sure he will." She says, and Harry notices the affection in her voice. They must have quite a loving relationship... He can't help but feel envious. Esme stops, turning to an iron gate with the American flag displayed on top. "This is our house. Carlisle runs the clinic from here. He doesn't open for another half hour, but... I think he can make an exception."

While she undoes the latch, Harry stares up at the house. It's tall, as far as regular homes go, like maybe three storeys high instead of two. He figures they must live on the upper levels, while the lowest is solely for the doctor and his patients. It seems like a justifiable way to manage a medical centre.

Esme holds the gate open, "Come on, I'll introduce you two." He follows her in, feeling more than a little apprehensive even if nothing seems shady at all. His pulse has yet to lose the erratic thumping. The Cullens have a small garden to the left of the house, filled with small flowers and green herbs.

Dittany, he notices idly. The doctor works with magical plants. It's no wonder the clinic stays in business, what with the subtle use of magic and all.

"Oh, Rosalie, are you headed out?" calls Esme as a young woman steps out of the doorway. Harry can't help but stare, entranced. She reminds him entirely of a veela and she very well might have been one, as far as he knew. Blonde, beautiful, taller than him—maybe he did have a type.

"Yes." The woman, Rosalie, says. As she passes Harry, she raises a brow questioningly.

"This is Harry..." Esme slides her eyes over to him, and he stutters out a hasty 'Potter', a bit embarrassed to have been caught watching her. "Yes, Harry Potter. He's visiting from England."

She doesn't seem all that interested, choosing to sweep a hand through her golden hair and nod. "I see."

"And he's one of us."

This catches her attention indefinitely. Harry blanches as Rosalie takes a step closer to him, enough that he can smell a hint of perfume. "Are you in a coven?" She ventures.

Harry has no idea what a coven is. Out of fear of seeming unintelligent in front of someone so pretty, he just shakes his head, rather than trying to ask. He figures it's an American thing.

His answer seems to satisfy her enough that she shrugs and bids goodbye to Esme, then glances at Harry. "See you." She says to him curtly and then takes her leave.

He feels his entire face flush red as he tries to reply, but nothing coherent comes out, so he watches her go in silence.

Esme smiles teasingly, "Rosalie is beautiful, isn't she? She's my eldest daughter, always been a bit antisocial, but she seems to like you well enough."

"Oh," He says, furrowing his brows. Esme must have actually been quite old to have a daughter who looks so close in age to her.

As if noticing his perplexed expression, she laughs, "She's my _adopted_ daughter, along with my other children."

That makes more sense. He wonders if Esme perhaps cannot have children, which would be quite sad considering what a lovely person she is. She leads him into the house, knocking on the first door they came upon. "Carlisle's office." She says to him, then waits.

A man's voice from inside calls her name questioningly.

She purses her lips. "I have someone here who wants to meet you. He found something of yours."

In no time at all, the door opens to reveal a tall, blond man in white scrubs. Harry's first instinct is to drool at the sight of a face that honestly spells out perfection, but he instead wills himself to remain absolutely calm. He's beginning to wonder if all the Cullens are just an artificial group of supermodels. No human family could be _this_ good-looking.

"It's good to meet you." says the man courteously, extending a hand to Harry. "Dr. Carlisle Cullen." Harry hesitantly shakes hands with him, almost jolting at the cold temperature of his skin. It doesn't seem to bother Carlisle who instead remains mildly curious of who he is.

"Uh, Harry Potter." He manages. "I found your letter."

His eyes change almost instantly as he glances at Esme who holds the envelope out expectantly. Carlisle's smile falters. "How did you get this?"

"He says it was shot down by a..." She tilts her head, "A no-maj?"

He seems to understand this much at least from the way his eyes light up. Though his shoulders do not visibly loosen, Harry can see Carlisle relax a bit. "I see. You're a wizard."

Harry nods. "And so are you."

He blinks, "No, I'm not."

"But–" He glances at Esme who still appears rather confused about this entire conversation. "You said we were the same?"

She grimaces. "You aren't a vampire, are you, Harry?"

"What? Wait... Vampire–?" Oh. It makes perfect sense now. Their pallor, their talk of covens, the _eyes_... When Esme had tried to ask him when he'd learned of his magic ability, she was more than likely actually trying to ask when he'd become a vampire. He exhales; how had the misunderstanding developed so far it was almost comical?

Carlisle chuckles, "I can imagine what may have happened. In any case, though different, we are both still part of the magical community, no?"

"Right–yeah, I..." Harry shakes his head. "I don't have anything against vampires." He had only briefly seen one vampire before in his lifetime, not including the watered down textbook explanations of the species at school. There was no reason he should hate them anyways. "I noticed you grow dittany so I thought you were a wizard."

He raises a brow in amusement. "Among other magical plants, it's much easier to treat human ailments with a bit of enhancements. You certainly know your herbs."

Harry's cheeks flush red. "I–Yeah, I went to Hogwarts." Professor Snape drilled plants into his head in potions and Professor Sprout did the same in herbology. Some things had no choice but to imprint in his head.

"All this talk of magic is confusing." Esme huffs, clearly at a loss. "So both of you are familiar with each other? No animosity."

"I have nothing against wizards or witches." Carlisle replies offhandedly, "In fact, I've always been rather envious. Treating broken bones must be quite easy with magic."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "A bit, yes." Reminded of what happened to him in his second year, he clears his throat. "Do you... only treat no-majs?"

"They generate about 98% of my patients, but I recall treating witches before." He says. "I take it you have an issue you want looked at?"

Harry nods, shifting his gaze to his feet. It's a bit intimidating to continue looking at the perfectly symmetrical Carlisle when he's sure he must look like a windswept mess. Carlisle claps a hand on his shoulder good-naturedly, guiding him into his office.

Esme smiles at him. "See you later, Harry."

He bids goodbye to her as she shuts the door, waiting in apprehension as Carlisle takes a seat in his swivelling chair, turning his intense eyes to Harry. "So, what seems to be the problem?" He taps a pen against the top of a clipboard. "Have a seat." He obediently takes a seat in the chair Carlisle gestures to.

Harry takes a deep breath, "I'm haunted by my dead boyfriend."

Carlisle's expression is unreadable for the longest while. Harry can practically _see_ the amount of respect he has for Harry dwindle. What teenager walks into a doctor's office spouting this sort of shite anyways. He stands up, placing the clipboard on his desk then approaches his library. "Would you like to explain?"

"There was–" He doesn't expect Carlisle to know much about the war, but he figures it's worth explaining. "I lost him in 1995 because of the dark lord, he's this–"

"Lord Voldemort." interjects Carlisle calmly, continuing to browse through a section of books. It's no surprise the doctor isn't bothered by the stigma concerning the name. "I've heard of him. Yes?"

"He killed him. I... couldn't do anything about it." He says. A lump has already begun forming in his throat at the thought of his Cedric. "There was a war that ended on May 2. I haven't had any dreams about him until the night the war was over."

"What sort of things does he do in your dream?" inquires Carlisle, pulling out a dusty tome from the shelf. He opens it, flipping through with a mildly perplexed expression.

"He... says my name, over and over, mostly." He admits. "Sometimes the dreams are memories. Things we used to do together." Just a few nights ago, he'd had to relive watching Cedric die. Harry closes his eyes, feeling his chest give a painful tug. "I want it to stop."

Carlisle closes the book. He circles back over to his desk and gingerly lifts the envelope with his name on it. "Harry, do you suppose there is even the slightest chance your boyfriend hasn't died?"

"No." He snaps, almost immediately. "No... It was a killing curse. Not possible." How he wishes that were the case. But he'd seen Cedric's body, felt his cold, dead skin and stared into his blank, unseeing eyes. Perhaps this had been a mistake. He didn't need to be dredging up even more awful memories. "I should go–"

"Harry–" says Carlisle exasperatedly, "Wait."

"No, I shouldn't have come here." He says in dismay. Hermione was right. Maybe he just needed to visit a certified wizard hospital, pump his body full of drugs, and sleep so soundlessly he may one day die like that. "Sorry, I'll just..."

"No." He says sternly, suddenly much more serious. "You said your last name was Potter?"

Harry furrows his brows. "Yeah?" What brought this on? "What of it?"

The doctor frowns, turning the letter that had been inside the envelope over to Harry. "This is you, isn't it?"

A moving picture of Harry is plastered over the front, the one from his Undesirable mugshot. He doesn't have any time to give a retort, because the headline has any such response dying in his chest.

**'Missing: The Boy-Who-Lived'**

He'd been reported as missing? Hermione must not have told anyone he was leaving of his own volition. He had asked her to keep it as low-key as she could. He cringes. "This is not how I imagined that going..." 

"It seems," says Carlisle, "That this was mailed to every non-no maj in Salem. Your ministry knows that you're here, but they don't know the exact location."

"I don't..." He scowls, "I don't even know _why_ they're looking for me."

"At any rate, perhaps it would be wise to lay low. If you leave my house now, you might be spotted." suggests Carlisle helpfully, "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, though."

"No, that's..." He stands up. Suddenly, everywhere is unsafe. It's like he's on the run all over again. His head is spinning. "I'll use a glamour." He wrestles his wand from his pocket, ready to cast some sort of glamour, though his fingers are visibly shaking. 

"Only if you're sure." says Carlisle gently. He stands, ready to open the door, just as the sound of someone running down the stairs fills the air. 

A girl with short hair comes bounding at them full speed. "Carlisle!" She exclaims, "Is it true? Is the boy with you a wizard?"

"Alice." Carlisle says, pointedly. "He's right here."

She turns to him with bright eyes. "Whoa, I've never met a wizard before. Nice to meet you!" She extends a hand to Harry who can't help himself when he follows suit. She shakes his hand enthusiastically, leaning closer to study his face. "Your eyes are gorgeous." 

"Er, thank you?" He says uncertainly. She's a force to be reckoned with. He does recall hearing her name at Eva's. Another one of Esme's adopted children. It's strange how much their personalities differ, in comparison to Rosalie. "I was just leav—"

"Alice, Carlisle is working. You aren't allowed to be down here."

Harry looks up at the sound of a new voice.

All at once, he feels the blood drain from his face. Around him, everything moves faster than he can process. Alice is still speaking, Carlisle is moving towards them, but Harry is frozen, unable to do much more than stare into the face of—" _Cedric_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the wait, hah...hah..._


End file.
